


goodbye my lover

by kindaopps



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Married Life, Moving On, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindaopps/pseuds/kindaopps
Summary: "Nothing was slowly clotting my arteries. Nothing slowly numbing my soul. Caught by nothing, saying nothing, nothingness becomes me." - Jeanette Winterson"He's not here," Viktor says, and there seems to be something stuck in his throat, his chest, something bubbling, roaring against a dam he'd constructed. "He's gone."





	goodbye my lover

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this when i was... well, unhappy. i'm sorry. actually terrified to post this, but it has been languishing in my files for nearly a year so.... ha ha ha  
> unbeta’ed  
> literary references at the end notes  
> title taken from james blunt’s song of the same title

_"Nothing was slowly clotting my arteries. Nothing slowly numbing my soul. Caught by nothing, saying nothing, nothingness becomes me."_

-x- 

The familiar strands of _Yuuri on Ice_ is stuck in his head as soon as Viktor wakes up. He stretches in bed and blinks into the pale sunlight. He reaches out, but the sheets are cool, and there is no body beside him. There are no sounds of breathing, apart from his own. He closes his eyes. Turns onto his back. Light streams in, a small sliver stretched across the ceiling. He reaches up and presses his hand against his heart, where it beats slow and steady beneath his hand. It surprises him, just a little, before the steady thud becomes uncomfortable to feel, and Viktor takes his hand away and struggles to breathe easily.

The sun is out today, but the air is cold and harsh. It burns his lungs. 

"Yuuri," he calls. There is no reply. It echoes, in the void that boxes Viktor in. There is nothing, this is nothing, he is nothing.

The days run, bleed into each other. The sun rises. Sets. Faces blur, concerned, worried, upset, grave, and it does not matter, anymore. Yuri comes to visit him. Viktor recognises him, his bright, pale hair in the white light of his kitchen. There is a hot mug of tea in front of him, and Viktor touches the sides of the cup with both his hands. It scalds his hands, but he holds on. Somehow, it forces him into the present. He thinks he went to the ice rink today. He thinks he bought breakfast, possibly for Yuri as well. He does not know why they're back in the house.

“Viktor.” 

“Yes?”

"You're spacing out again."

"I'm here."

"Mari called. Yuuri's things-" 

Viktor slams his hand down, and Yuri stops talking. His eyes are cautious, but he looks tired, resigned. 

"I don't-" Viktor tries. "I can't-"

Yuri goes around the table and sits beside him. "He's dead, Viktor," he says quietly, and Viktor presses his hands into his eyes and exhales, shaky. He thinks he can hear the sound of choking from his own throat, and then Yuri awkwardly sliding a hand around his shoulder.

 _Yuuri_ , Viktor calls again, struggling to pull his pieces together. _Yuuri_.

No one answers. Yuuri's name dissipates in the air. Nothing, now. It grows dark.

Morning comes again, sullen and aggressively bright. It hurts Viktor’s eyes. He is painfully aware of the silence at engulfs the house, the way one side of his bed is cold. He has woken up like this for a while now, but today, it seems particularly jarring. _He's dead, Viktor_. He crawls out of bed and sits on the floor, staring at their room, their clothes, their curtains, the bluish-grey ones Yuuri insisted on getting, their fur carpet, with the stain where Yuuri spilt coffee on, the sweat pants Yuuri left tossed over the chair. _He's dead, Viktor_. Yuuri's imprint lingers in their bed, in the mussed sheets on his side of the bed. Yuuri's colours bleeds into the very walls of the room. The air is stale. Viktor moves over the pick up Yuuri's stray pants, brings it to his face and breathes. Yuuri's scent is gone. Erased. Eradicated.

Suddenly, Viktor is one universe of pain, and, in some small, distant part of his brain, he is somewhat surprised that his body remains whole and intact, the way it hurts _._ His throat is tight and his eyes are dry. There is no way he can let the pain go without dissolving into nothing.

Yuri finds him in the same position later, hands clutched around his body desperately, head ducked down, shaking. He drops to his knees beside Viktor and sits, silently, for a few good hours.

“Yurio,” he finally whispers, forcing his tongue to speak.

"Viktor," Yurio says, and gently tugs on his arm until Viktor looks up. He finds that Yuri looks exhausted too, his eyes filled with sorrow and worry. Viktor takes a deep breath he does not feel. His voice doesn't work.

"Yuuri. My Yuuri."

"Viktor," Yuri says, his voice too gentle, too at odds with his normal one.

"He's not here," Viktor says, and there seems to be something stuck in his throat, his chest, something bubbling, roaring against a dam he'd constructed. "He's gone."

Yuri doesn’t say anything. Viktor lets out a laugh, fractured and odd-sounding, and he tries to say something else, but he chokes on air, and his throat and lungs and chest cavity and heart shrivels and twists, as if trying to reconfigure themselves. His entire body rebels against what he’d just uttered, and Viktor struggles to breathe. It is like the enormous weight that he’d managed to ignore the last week has made itself known and present and unavoidable, and it hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it _hurts._ Viktor might combust, might explode into anguish, into dust. The tears come finally, wet and ugly.  

-x-

“Shhh,” Viktor whispered into Yuuri’s hair as Yuuri hiccupped and snuffled against his chest, his face wet and hot against Viktor’s neck. Viktor’s shirt had a wet patch, his leg was numb, and he sighed a little ruefully.

“Love,” Viktor sighed, rubbing his hand against Yuuri’s back, and Yuuri shifted, hands scrunching Viktor’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he blubbered, “I’m sorry, I-”

“Hey,” Viktor said, tilting Yuuri’s face up and tenderly wiping away the tears on Yuuri’s face, “shhh.” Yuuri’s eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and more tears spilled over.  

“I wanted her to like me,” Yuuri whispered, and he ducked his head down and tried to stifle his cries. Viktor pulled Yuuri back into his embrace, trying to surreptitiously move his leg to a more comfortable position. 

“It can’t be helped,” Viktor told him, “she doesn’t really like anything, I think.” 

Yuuri looked up at him, tear tracks lingering on his face and Viktor was struck by how beautiful is, even when he is crying. Viktor pressed kisses on his heated eyelids, and Yuuri made a small sound at the back of  his throat. 

“This is why I didn’t want you to meet her _._ She’s not a nice woman.”

“But she’s your mother,” Yuuri said, still stubborn. “I wanted her to be happy for you, for us…” He trailed away, and looked like he might start crying again.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said gently, cradling Yuuri’s face between his palms, and his thumbs rubbed away the tracks on Yuuri’s cheeks, “my mother would never be happy with whatever I do. She hated the fact that I loved ice skating, that I had long hair, that I liked boys instead of girls...” Viktor let out a long breath and a sardonic laugh, “sometimes I think she hated the fact that I was born and that I look so much like my father.”

Yuuri hiccupped again and shook his head, and his hot hands reached up to hold Viktor’s face. His eyes swept over his face, his mouth pursed pensively. Viktor looked back, smiling a little, thumbing at his mouth, and Yuuri impulsively kissed him. Pulling away, he pressed his cheek against Viktor's shoulder, and clutched at his back.

"I love you," Yuuri said simply, and he pressed himself closer. "You make me happy." 

Viktor’s heart swelled, and he smiled widely at Yuuri and kissed him, and loved him more. His Yuuri, who had demanded that Viktor bring him to see his mother, insisted that it was tradition to get the parent’s blessings, who had endured his mother’s snide remarks about him with a shy, awkward smile and fortitude, who had only snapped when Viktor’s mother had called Viktor a disappointment. Who had snapped, and dragged Viktor out. His Yuuri, who had started crying when they reached home, even though he was trembling in anger moments before. 

“Yuuri. I love you too."  

Yuuri nuzzled into his neck and pressed a kiss where his heartbeat was. They stayed that way for another long moment.

“Yuuri?” 

“Hmm?”

“I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

-x- 

His mouth feels crummy. His arms are numb. The light is streaming weakly through the translucent curtains, and Viktor is lying on the floor, on his side. His shoulder hurts, but it is little compared to the stabbing that assaults his head. He exhales once, hard, but does nothing except pull his legs up further to his chest. He knocks into an empty vodka bottle as he does so, the crisp clattering ringing unpleasantly in his brain that he breathes deeply to ignore. The light slowly stretches to throw a rare warm patch over his calves, he doesn't move.

Yuuri.

"Wake up, old man," Yuri Plistesky's voice drifts over, and Viktor's eyes open. There's the sounds of plastic bags crinkling and heavy thuds on his table, and Viktor deigns to sit up, his entire body aching from spending too long on the floor. His mouth still feels distinctly unpleasant, and the headache has barely lessened. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales again. Forces his mouth to work.

"What are you doing here?"

"To see your pathetic face," comes the reply, sharp and abrasive. "You look like shit."

Viktor doesn't have to deal with this. He doesn't. He stands, catches the back of the couch for balance, and steps towards the bedroom. 

"Viktor." It is angry, frustrated. "Take some aspirin, for fuck's sake."

Viktor turns, accepts the glass and two pills Yuri pushes at him. He swallows them, and then turns back to the bedroom. He steps into the bathroom, strips, ignores the mirror, and turns the water as hot as it would go. The water sluices down his body, way too hot, steaming up the entire bathroom. Viktor sinks to his knees, hair dripping into his eyes, and looks at his pale hands. His ring glints dully on his fourth finger, and he suddenly cannot breathe, suddenly aching for air. His hands clench, and his heart ceases to beat, suspended in pain. _One, two, three, one, two, three,_ he counts, forcing his heart to beat again. He leans his head again the wall, then reaches up to off the water when his breaths even out. He stands, cursorily wiping his body with the towel that was tossed on the floor, and pulls on a well washed shirt and sweat pants that hang low on his hips. The bed remains unmade, and Viktor smoothens his hand onto Yuuri's side of the bed, the back of his eyes stinging. He pushes his face into Yuuri's pillow. Taking another deep breath, and another, he returns to the kitchen to find Yuri cooking at the stove.

"Smells good," Viktor says, the corners of his mouth curling up. He is exhausted, but he will try. 

"Of course," Yuri scoffs, turning around and waving a wooden spoon at him. "Set the table." 

Viktor pushes his food on his plate and eats little, and the dinner table is silent.

"You have to stop drinking." There it is, blunt and to the point. Viktor doesn't flinch.

"I'm fine." 

"You drank two entire bottles in a fucking week."

"I'm fine," Viktor insists hollowly, and Yuri clings onto the temper that would have got away from him 23 years ago. At 39, Yuri Plisetsky knows how to deal with Viktor Nikiforov better.

"Yeah? How about cleaning the damn house?”

"I was tired."

“Were you.”

“Yeah.”

Yuri steps away from the table and goes to pick up the stray jumper at the sofa, and Viktor, watching him, feels his heart jump at his throat. He stands immediately, and grabs Yuri’s hand. 

“Don’t.” 

Yuri looks at him with shrewd eyes, and Viktor watches as grief overtakes the anger. He looks away.

“It’s been a month,” Yuri says quietly, “you haven’t moved any of his things.”

Viktor doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t know if he can, he only knows that if he moved anything, everything would be really gone. Yuri would really be gone, he won’t be putting on the jumper at the sofa, or taking the used coffee mug to the sink to wash, or eating the cold miso in the fridge. The apartment is frozen, paralysed in a state of time, and Viktor is fine with it. Really. In fact, it is better that way. Yuuri can linger in this stasis. Some days, Viktor thinks that Yuuri might just be wandering back into their home, kissing Viktor and laughing at him.

“I’ll do it soon.”

“When is soon? Tomorrow? The day after? Next week?”

Viktor closes his eyes, defeated.

“Vitya, you have to do it sooner or later.”

“I know. I just- not now.” 

“Viktor.” 

“You don’t understand,” Viktor says dully, and Yuri’s eyes flash with anger. He grabs Viktor by the collar and drags him across the table. 

"You're not the only one who misses him," he hisses, his green eyes narrowed, glittering with some fierce emotion. "Stop moping around like the whole world ended."

Viktor looks at Yuri in the eye, and Yuri falters. He lets go, and Viktor looks down, his hair falling into his eyes.

"It has," Viktor says lowly, brokenly, "ended." He closes his eyes and breathes in shakily. "It has ended, and somehow, I'm still alive."

Yuri clenches his jaw, and his eyes are hot. He inhales hard, and scrubs a hand through his hair.

"He would have hated seeing you like this. He would-"

Viktor stands up, his face smooth, uneasy in its blankness. "He's dead," Viktor says flatly. "He won't ever know."

"Viktor," Yuri yells, slamming his hands on the table. The cutlery jumps and clatters. Yuri doesn't know what else to say, only he's frustrated, desperate, and terrified. The Viktor in front of him isn't the Viktor he knows. This Viktor is a negative photo, an empty shell. Devastated. Grief is eating him whole, and Viktor isn't fighting back, and Yuri doesn't know how to save him. He swallows hard. "Please," he tries, his voice choked. "Please." 

Viktor turns his back on Yuri. His shoulders are hunched into himself, and he looks frail, like a man who had lost everything.

"Go home, Yurio."

Yuri picks up his bag, stalking towards the door. "I just-" Yuri's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "I just don't want to lose you too." The door closes behind him.

Viktor makes his way to the bedroom, and curls up Yuuri's side of the bed. Closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself. "Yuuri," Viktor breathes, then his voice is stuck in his throat, choking him. "Yuuri, what do I do?" He closes his eyes and keeps the tears at bay, but not the monsters. The dreams are fleeting, and cruel: Yuuri’s hands on his shoulders, their laughter ringing in their home, _I love you, Vitya_. Viktor slides his damp eyes open, and goes to the kitchen, where two dinners are now cold. He reaches into the cabinet, and pulls open a fresh bottle of vodka.

-x-

"This is disgusting," Yuuri said, wrinkling his nose as he set down a shot glass, his hair tousled. He is drop dead gorgeous in his navy blue suit, and Viktor cannot wait to pull it off his husband’s body. 

Mila chuckled, her hand wrapped around Sara’s waist as she tosses back another shot in quick succession. Yuuri scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue as he watches her.   

"Oh, husband," Viktor laughed, and he nuzzled into Yuuri's neck, ignoring Yuri's gagging. "You better get used to it."

"That's way too much anyway, husband,” Yuuri looks distastefully at the numerous bottles that fill an entire table. 

"Oh don't worry," Mila sung, throwing an arm around Yuuri's shoulders and grinning madly at him, "we’ll finish the alcohol!” 

"But-"

"And Yurio's finally legal, so we are gonna treat him well! No one leaves sober at a Russian wedding."  

"I told you not to call me by that stupid name!"

"How about down a shot every time someone calls you Yurio?" Viktor chirped, on his fourth shot and still looking distinctly sober, and Yuuri had looked at him in horror.

"Viktor! Yurio's still a kid-"

"I'm not a kid, piggy!-"

“-Drink!"

They had stumbled out, laughing, when Mila shoved them away with a laviscious grin, telling them to _enjoy yourselves, we don’t expect to see you guys tomorrow_. Yuuri, drunk himself, had winked and squeezed Viktor’s ass in front of them. Viktor thinks that Phichit was snapping away, laughing behind his phone. There had been wolf-whistles, and Viktor grinned and kissed Yuuri on his mouth deeply, and Otabek had sighed and pushed them out, while keeping his arm around Yuri who couldn’t stand straight.

The open-air arena was just a short walk to the cottage they’d booked for their wedding, and Viktor looked up at the sky, with the stars far and bright, the moon round, Yuuri’s weight warm and molded against his, and thought it beautiful.

He turned, and Yuuri’s face was tilted up. The moonlight touched his features and made him ethereal. Viktor's very own star, forever his. 

“Yuuri…”

“Yeah, husband?” Yuuri giggled. Viktor could see galaxies in the dark, glittering eyes.

“We are married, husband.”

“I know, husband.” 

“You’re not going to stop with the husband, are you, husband?”

“Of course not, husband.”

Viktor had bent close and kissed Yuuri, licking into his hot, alcoholic mouth, and Yuuri groaned. They went back to their cottage, and Viktor made love to Yuuri with the stars gleaming above them.

( _“Don’t weep, insects –_

_Lovers, stars themselves,_

_Must part.”_

_“What?”_

_“Ah- nothing, just a silly little poem.”_ )

Viktor woke up the next morning, Yuuri’s fingers in his hair, with a horrible hangover, Yuuri smiling at him over the covers, and knew he only wanted to wake up to Yuuri everyday, for the rest of his life.

-x-

There are light fingers in his hair when he wakes. He rolls onto his back, his hands pressed onto his eyes. Yuuri is in the bedroom; Viktor can hear him shifting, lazily stretching in bed - and then, in a few moments, when Viktor turns, he would see sleep-heavy brown eyes peeking over the covers. He struggles to inhale, his senses screaming _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri_. The bed rustles.

"Wake up, Vitya."

"Yuuri?” Viktor murmurs, and he turns, and Yuuri smiles at him, and Viktor cannot breathe – that was just a bad, horrible, long dream, Yuuri is alive, and well, and – Viktor reaches, but he cannot touch. He stops breathing, and the frantic hope fades to crushing grief. He falls back into bed; turns his face into his pillow and breathes deeply, even as his head spins. Yuuri’s voice seems to be coming to him through a haze.

“You’re dead,” he says out loud, and his heart is uncomfortably thudding through his body. His eyes ache and grow wet, and he fights to keep himself from breaking down: he had just lost Yuuri again.

"I am," Yuuri says ruefully.

"Then why are you here?”

“You must know yourself.”

Viktor says nothing. 

"This is not good, Viktor," Yuuri chides, although his voice is gentle. Viktor snorts. 

"I know."

"Everyone is worried about you."

"I know." 

"Then what are you doing? Are you going to throw away your life because I died?"

"You were my entire life. You are." 

"I am not," Yuuri says quietly, and Viktor hates him, hates him for leaving him early, hates him for causing him such pain. He gets something that feels like a spark of anger in his heavy chest, and he fights to not scream at the phantom. He's not _crazy_. 

"Why are you here?" Viktor repeats, and Yuuri's phantom fingers touch his hair again.

"You'll have to ask yourself that," Yuuri murmurs, "I'm just... a figment of your imagination.”

Viktor presses his face further into the pillow and breathes in deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, his ring catches the light and glints dully back at him.

_(“You should stop wearing the ring on your right hand.” Mila, her eyes gentle and sad._

_“…no.”)_

Viktor finds the bottom of a bottle before the sun has fully set. The hangovers are bad, and his body is heavy. But drinking seems to be the only way to chase away the pain that has taken a permanent residence inside him, stubborn and as heavy as the whole world. Memory is a horrible thing. Viktor crawls into his bed when everything is suitably blunted down; the world seems too harsh to him, without the alcohol. His head throbs, and it distracts him from where he can see Yuuri shifting from the corner of his eyes. The sun lengthens outside the window, yellow-orange and melancholic at twilight. 

Viktor burrows further into his sheets, shaken and hollow and exhausted. He feels like a leaf trembling in the wind, feels like the word _shatter_ ; one wrong push and he'll fall into irreparable pieces.

-x-

"Oh-ouch!-"

"What -"

"It hurts-"

"Hold still," Yuuri said sternly. Pieces of a glass cup lay scattered around, and steaming water dripped over the counter. Viktor pouted, dismayed that his attempt at helping Yuuri in the kitchen backfired so badly.

"I don't know why it broke," he huffed, and Yuuri shot him a look.

"You tried to put boiling water into a glass, of course it'll break."

"They didn't say that when we were buying them."

"Viktor...it's common sense." 

"Hmph."

Yuuri gently patted the bandage over his cut, and Viktor wonderingly squeezed at it, and then waves his finger at Yuuri. "Kiss it better!"

Yuuri sighed, amused, but bent his head to press his lips against his finger. Before Viktor could pull him closer and kiss him, Yuuri pressed a hand to the middle of his chest.

"Now get out of the kitchen. I have to clean this before our rinkmates come over and laugh at you."

-x-

Georgi comes to see him. Mila. Yurio and Otabek. It is strangely Mila who brings him a book, and tells him to read it. _Twenty-One Love Poems and a Song of Despair._ Viktor lets them in, but they can hardly break through the walls of his anguish. The forts of his grief. Yurio tells him about the students at the rink, screams at him, but Viktor barely budges. His alcohol consumption becomes worst, but Viktor cannot bring himself to care. The world has nothing more for him. 

Yakov comes, old and withered, still gruff. Viktor purses his mouth when he sees him, but allows him in.

"Yurio asked you to come?"

"Said you were drinking too much." 

"I'm fine."

"I know what fine is and what you are isn't."

"And what do you want me to do?"

Yakov leans heavily on his cane and surveys Viktor with keen eyes. Viktor allows the scrutiny, aware of the unwashed state of his hair, his pallid skin, the way his clothes hang too loose on his frame.

"Move on, Vitya."

It hits him in the stomach, and Viktor nearly bends over. His eyes ache, and his nails dig into his palm. 

"I'm trying," Viktor croaks out, and he presses his hands onto his eyes. The remains of his breakfast lay charred in the pan. He was never very good at cooking, because Yuuri always cooked in their house. The house no longer sings with sounds of domestic joy. It has never been so quiet before. Viktor thinks he might be going crazy.

"That boy was good for you," Yakov says, after a long silence. "I have never seen you happier than with him."

Viktor clenches his hand tighter, the sobs bubbling in his throat and desperate to be free. "I was," he says hoarsely, and swallows hard. He doesn't know how to continue.

"You have Yuri. Mila, and Georgi. That boy's family. Me."

"You all are not my Yuuri." 

"And we will never be. But we are still here. And we will be here for you." 

"Go away," Viktor whispers, his skin too tight and his eyes burning. "Get out." He just wants to curl up in his grief and dream about Yuuri. 

Yakov doesn't get angry, just makes his way out. "You can't let this break you, Vitya," he says somberly, "try harder." The door closes. 

“But I am so tired,” Viktor says out loud, and he retires to his bedroom and pulls his knees to his chest. _Yuuri,_ Viktor thinks, _why have you gone where I cannot follow?_ Viktor feels like a boat cut loose of its strings, set loose to the world, to the vast, horizonless sea. He has lost his anchor, and his ship is filling up with water; it is sinking, slowly, surely.

-x-

“So this _utsuro-bune_ woman...she just floats on the sea for time memorial.” 

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that just cruel? To leave her stranded in a tiny ship alone? She’ll be lonely.”

“Her fate is up to the gods, after all,” Yuuri told him, sighing a little as Viktor’s fingers comb through his hair, “humans cannot- should not- interfere.”

“But what of her free will? Why can she not decide whether she wanted to go back to the sea or to stay with the fishermen?”

Yuuri shrugged as far as he could against Viktor’s lap. “I don’t think they’d know either way. They couldn’t talk to her.” 

Viktor made a discontented sound. “I don’t like this story.”

“Only because it’s about predestination and you hate those.”

“Fate is a ridiculous concept.” 

“You don’t think fate got us here?” 

“… I courted you.”

“Only because the triplets posted that video.”

“I would have found you either way. I fell in love with you first, after all.”

“…I’m contesting that.”

“Oh no, you liked the _idea_ of me.”

“A part of you, but I did love that. I think it’s weird you fell in love with me when I was drunk and clearly not myself.” 

“You don’t get to challenge me on this when you don’t even remember how you seduced me.”

“I did _not_ seduce you.” 

“You stripped, pole-danced, waltzed, break-danced, _dry-humped me in your briefs-_ ”

“Vitya! You promised not to bring this up.”

“Did I?” 

“ _Viktor._ ”

-x-

“Viktor, it’s time for you to go to the rink. Yurio won’t like it if you’re late.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“What?” 

“It’s not - like that. You don't say my name like that.”

“How did I say your name?”

_Yuuri, the first time he said Vitya, eyes bright but shy, mouth tripping over the syllables. “Viktor – ah – um, Vitya?”_

_Yuuri on the ice, giggling as he tried to pry Viktor’s arms off his waist. “Vitya, they're all staring at us - don't - don't put your cold hands on my butt!”_

_Yuuri, back arching off the bed gracefully, hair matted, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth a wet, red, swollen mess as Viktor pushed his fingers into him and twisted them. “Unhhh- Viktor- Vitya, yes, there, more, oh god-”_

_Yuuri, exasperated, when Viktor tried to help him cook. “Viktor, darling, please get out of the kitchen before you burn it down.”_

_Yuuri, stomping out of their bedroom and burning red with embarrassment, raising a threatening hand at him, his eyes gleaming in panic. “Viktor! Take those embarrassing posters down now! Yurio and Otabek are coming, for god’s sake!”_

_Yuuri, in his arms, after they’d been separated for a few days. “I missed you, Vitya.”_

_Yuuri, arms crossed, looking in frustrated dismay at the pink-stained clothes that tumbled out of the washing machine. “Vitya. You did not.”_

_Viktor. Vitya, Viktor, Vitya, Vitya-_

Viktor pushes his fingers into his ears and screams, like he could drown out Yuuri’s voice.

-x-

“Are you better?” Viktor whispered. His hands pressed against Yuuri’s ears, as Yuuri reached up and covered Viktor’s hands with his own. Yuuri’s eyes were red and wet, and he was shaking, just a little. His breaths are loud and harsh and echoing in the toilet, hiccupping as he tried to regain his breath. Viktor pressed his lips against Yuuri’s forehead, and comforted himself with the shouting that is going outside, and then the wail of police cars. He hasn’t seen Yuuri like this in a few good years, and he liked to think that he had some part to play in that marked change, but _this_. Yuuri trying to breathe, trying to hold himself together and not fall apart, wrenched Viktor into pieces. 

Yuri stomped in, his hair in a mess, and he opened his mouth, as if to shout, and then caught sight of Yuuri and Viktor, who turned to him and glared. _Get out_. Yuri went, not before throwing a concerned glance over his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispered, after long moments, when he was breathing normally, and then he gently lowered their hands, even though he had clutched onto Viktor’s hands in his lap. “I didn’t mean – to disrupt practice.

“Hey. Practice is not as important as you are.”

“It’s just – they were so _loud_.” 

Viktor inhaled deeply and shoved away the anger. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri brought his hand up and kissed Viktor’s hand, and he smiled, even though it looked more like a grimace. “I’m better now.”

Viktor took a deep breath. “What did they say?” 

Yuuri’s smile faltered, and he shook his head. “Just some – unkind things.”

“You were having a panic attack,” Viktor said flatly, “it’s not _just some unkind things_.”

“I don’t want to repeat them,” Yuuri’s eyes were fixed on their joined hands, “I don’t want you to hear them.”

“Oh darling…”

“I’m really better now. We can go back to practice.”

Viktor gave him a flat look. “We are going back home.”

“But-”

“You haven’t had an attack in years, I’m bringing you home so you can rest.”

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be fine…but it just came,” Yuuri said quietly, like he was disappointed in himself.

“It is fine,” Viktor assured him, and then he moved so he is sitting down instead of kneeling in front of Yuuri. “Things happen.”

Yuuri shook his head again. “I _know_ I’m better,” he insisted, “I’m happy where I am and _I love you so much_. I know you love me too. And I will protect you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

 _They must have said something about us_ , Viktor thought, _about me_ , and he bit back a snarl that threatened to erupt from his throat. Using him to hurt Yuuri was _not on_. He inhaled deeply and kissed Yuuri’s forehead. “I love you very much. You’re the most precious thing in my world.”

“And you are mine,” Yuuri said quietly, and he leaned forward until his head thunked against Viktor’s shoulder. “I’m so tired,” he mumbled, and Viktor let go of his hands to scoop him up. Yuuri huffed and struggled half-heartedly. “Put me down, Vitya. I can walk.” 

“Shush.”

Yuuri buried his head into Viktor’s neck and let him carry him out of the toilet.

“ _Is he okay_?” Yuri asked them in Russian, when they met him hovering near the stands. Even Yakov was turning a blind eye to them, choosing instead to yell at the other students who were staring. Viktor snorted, and Yuuri peered out where he was cuddled against Viktor’s chest. 

“ _I’m alright_ ,” Yuuri replied in Russian, and Yuri blinked before blushing. So cute, Viktor thought fondly, he’d forgotten my husband had been staying in Russia for a good three years. “ _Thank you, Yurio_.” 

“ _Don’t let the bastards grind you down_ ,” Yuri told him sternly, and then skated away.

Yuuri smiled, and Viktor drove him back home, brought him tea and cuddled with him on the couch.

“Sing me that song, the French one." 

“ _Hymne à l'amour_?” 

“Mmm.” 

Viktor pulled Yuuri closer and smiled.

“I can just put on the gramophone.” 

“I want you to sing it.”

“You always ask for this one,” Viktor sighed, rubbing his fingers on Yuuri’s hair. “Are you not sick of it already?”

“...it’s a beautiful song.”

“ _Le ciel bleu sur nous peut s’effondrer/ Et la terre peut bien s’écrouler…”_

-x-

“… _Peu m'importe si tu m’aimes/ Car moi je mourrai aussi_ ….” 

Viktor blinks, and then stands and turns off the gramophone that was playing, and Mila, Sara, Otabek and Yuri falter in the sudden silence. They are over for dinner, Viktor remembers, but somewhere along the way he’d gone somewhere in his head, only to come back and hear this song.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Not this song,” Viktor says. His hands start to tremble, “we can play something else.” He itches for a stiff drink, but he thinks Yuri had taken away every bottle a day ago, and Viktor hadn't had the energy to replenish his alcohol. He resents Yuri, but he digs his fingers into his palm to center himself. 

He also doesn’t need to turn to know the looks at were going on behind him, and he only relaxes when Mila, forcibly cheerful, starts a conversation. The atmosphere is cautious and worried.

Viktor stands where he is, and he inhales deeply. He plasters a smile on his face. “Do you want coffee?” He asks, moving to the kitchen, just for something to do, to try and shake off the jittery feeling in his limbs as best as he can. He doesn’t drink coffee, so he opens a few cupboards until he finds the bottle of instant coffee. 

He is just pulling it out when a little paper flutters out, onto the ground. Viktor picks it up, and suddenly the world shrinks into dark point. His hand had tightened around the paper, and he loosens his hand shakily, taking in another deep breath. _It’s okay,_ he thinks, _it’s okay. I’m okay_.

Except it isn’t, he isn't, and Viktor smoothens out the crushed paper, thumbing over the Cyrillic words. _Yuuri likes his coffee with three sugars and a good amount of milk._

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice shaky, and he tries to hold onto his composure. “Can you all leave?” 

There is a beat of silence, and then sounds of chairs scraping the floor, and the door opening and closing. He leaves the coffee, and slides down to the floor, thumping his fist against his chest, harder and harder, as if he could thump out the monster that had taken residence there ever since Yuuri died. He entertains the thought of a thin knife sliding between his ribs and twisting, the monster vanquished. _Out_ , he thinks, _out, out, out, out. Out. Out!_

 _“…Viktor_.” 

Yuri’s face swims into focus, his face frightened, and Viktor realises that he is frightened of him. He lets out a sharp laugh, and raises his hands to clutch at his hair. He abruptly realises that he had crushed the paper in his hands again, but he can’t seem to let his fingers go.

“Yuuri,” Viktor breaths, and he closes his eyes to thump his head against the cupboards. “Yuuri used to write me notes.” His laugh is sharp and Yuri flinches. 

“Viktor.”

“He’d write notes and leave them all over the house,” Viktor says wetly, and he laughs again, even though the sound breaks in places. “I had forgotten.”

“Viktor. You have to let go. Your hand is bleeding." 

Viktor lets Yuri take his hand, and smooth out his fingers, where the paper is now crushed and blood-red, where Viktor’s nails had cut into his palm. The blood stains the lines on his palm, not deep enough to be serious, but Yuri draws him up and washes it in the sink. Viktor doesn’t register the pain, and when Yuri shoos him to the living room, he turns and asks, “where is the paper?”

Yuri’s face is pinched. “It’s gross now, I’m going to throw it away.”

“Where is it?”

“On the table.”

Viktor moves and picks up the limp piece of paper, rust-red and damp, the black words barely visible. He brings it to the bedroom and tucks it in his drawer. Then he goes to a witch-hunt through the house- the first, since he'd refused to touch anything in the house since Yuuri was gone. Yuri watches him, as he combs the house for papers.

He feels like a masochist, because his heart aches every time he encounters Yuuri’s handwriting, the scribbled numbers at the phone book, the little reminders on top of the washing machine, the little love notes that he’d left in drawers, the ones that say _be back in 2 days!!_ and _your hair is thick and smells nice,_ and _you’re amazing!! ganba, vitya!,_ that all screams that he has lost Yuuri too fast, too soon, too abruptly, without time to ease into the white-blinding loss. What was that poem again? Smash, bang, whimper? He touches the letters, the mishmash of English and Japanese and Russian, careless and careful and clumsy. Yuuri haunts this house, and it hurts, but Viktor doesn’t want to let go. He can't.

It is no surprise to Yuri that Viktor breaks down again when he finds the grocery list wedged under the bowl of keys.

-x- 

_Grocery list:_

_salted caramel ice cream_

_peppermint tea_

_rice_

_soya sauce_

_eggs_

_とんかつ_ _(!! make me katsudon, my love)_

_~~carrots~~ _ _(i hate these) you don’t get a choice, i’m cooking_

_onions_

_みそ_

_fish_

_potatoes_

_pasta sauce_

_cider (you’re such a child, Yuuri.)_

_apples_

_toilet paper_

_~~vodka  (NO VIKTOR.)~~ _

_~~VODKA~~ _ _LET ME LIVE_

_EXACTLY. YOU’RE NEARLY FIFTY, VIKTOR._

_~~во́дка~~ _ _(I KNOW WHAT VODKA IS IN CYRILLIC)_

_ice and plasters because Yuuri hurt me ~~~~_

_lube (please don’t buy the scented ones. especially not the beer ones.)_

_I thought you liked them._

_NO._

_CONDOMS_

_more love from Yuuri_

_Yuuri plush_

_VIKTOR. (you don’t have to buy me from the store, love. I’m all yours.)_

_“_ Stop adding dumb things to the list, Vitya,” Yuuri said, brandishing the vandalised list at Viktor, but his eyes were amused, even though his mouth was pursed into mock annoyance.

“But they are the things I need!” Viktor said, eyes wide, even though his mouth was twitching.

“We literally have two bottles of vodka left.”

“That’s too little!”

“...I don’t think you can get my love from a grocery store, either.”

“A man can try.”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows at Viktor, and then ran his hand through his hair before moving closer to the couch and settling between Viktor’s legs, pulling aside the pillow Viktor was holding to his chest. “I don’t give you enough love?”

Viktor pouted at him, even though his breath had hitched when Yuuri’s hand wandered to his thigh and slipped inside the waistband of his sweatpants. His hand was cold and rough, but Viktor felt himself harden. “You think?”

“My love is not store-bought, Viktor,” Yuuri murmured in his ear, his hand moving slowly down Viktor’s length, constrained by the pants. Viktor made a sound at the back of his throat. “I guess you’ll have to settle for home-made.”

“Definitely,” Viktor sighed, slightly breathy, but Yuuri pulled his hand out and stood, throwing a grin at Viktor even though his cheeks were flushed.

“You best get that settled before you go to the market, then,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. Viktor, sprawled on the sofa, watched as Yuuri made his way to the bedroom.

“Oh no you don’t,” Viktor called, and Yuuri giggled before running to the bedroom and trying to close the door on Viktor, and they’d engaged in a push and pull until Viktor shoved his way in and shoved Yuuri up against the wall, kissing him stupid.

“The market is closing,” Yuuri mumbled, as Viktor kissed him down the neck and pushed his shirt up to his armpits. He thumbed at his nipples and caught Yuuri’s gasp in his mouth. 

“I’ll go tomorrow." 

“Hmm.” 

They’d kept the grocery list for the laughs, and kept adding silly things to the list, until it was filled with Japanese and Russian and English and no one could read it except them. It was their secret code, the recipe of their lives together, an equation of their love. The paper had yellowed, but it had kept its place under the bowl of keys. 

Viktor didn’t think this would break him, years later.

(“ _love is so short, forgetting is so long.”)_

When he exhausted himself from the tears, Yuri nudges him towards the bed and gently covered him up.

He closes his eyes. Dreams of Yuuri, Makkachin running at his side. They are whole, hale, and healthy. Waiting for Viktor. He reaches, but doesn’t grasp. 

When he wakes again, it is dark and his face is wet.

-x-

Yuuri and Viktor had retired to the bed the day Makkachin left them, Yuuri worrying his lip when Viktor turned his back against him. Their breathing was loud, and carefully, Yuuri pressed his face against Viktor’s back and wound his arm around his waist. He doesn’t speak, and Viktor took his hand and wound their fingers together.

“She lived a long life.”

“Yes." 

“…”

"..." 

"I'm here," Yuuri said softly. 

Viktor let out a long breath, and closed his eyes, and let warmth lull him to sleep.

A full month after, Yuuri cautiously broached the subject of a new dog, and Viktor looked at him and shrugged.

“We could get one, if you like,” he said carelessly, and Yuuri looked at him contemplatively.

“Would you like one?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” Viktor admitted, and smiled a little at Yuuri.

“I thought you might get lonely.”

“Why would I be lonely?” Viktor asked, tilting his head to the side and taking Yuuri’s hand, pulling him to his lap. 

“I don’t know, you just seemed to be lonely without Makkachin…”

“That was before you. I’m not lonely now.”

Yuuri cupped Viktor’s cheek and looked at him, brown eyes searching crystal blue, and Viktor let him do it, sure Yuuri would find what he was looking for. 

Yuuri kissed his forehead and hugged Viktor tightly. “I’ll always be with you,” he promised, “I will stay close and never leave.”

-x- 

“You said you’ll never leave me.”

“I did say that.”

“But you left, anyway.” 

“Death comes to us all.”

“Not like that. Not in that way. You weren’t supposed to die that way.”

“Viktor…” 

“Do you know how much it hurts, everyday? How much I miss you?” 

“I know.”

“…” 

“…” 

“I hope that son of a bitch dies in prison. I hope he loses everything he’s ever loved in his life. I dream about killing him, you know. Strangling him. Running him over with a car, like he did to you.”

“This isn’t healthy.”

“It isn’t. But I don’t care.”

“You need to see someone, Vitya.”

“Stop. You’re dead now, and you don’t get to tell me what to do.” 

“But you’re talking to me.”

“I know. It’s fucked up. I know.”

Yuuri doesn’t reply him, and Viktor rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling.

“Are you talking to yourself?” Yuri asks later, standing at the door, wearing that familiar pinched expression on his face, his apron splattered. 

“No.”

“Right.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“…” 

“I made food.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“And your laundry is done.”

“I’ll do it later." 

“The memo on the washing machine says not to procrastinate.”

“…”

“So?” Yuri tapped his feet onto the ground, impatient. 

“..."

“Do it," Yuri says aggressively, "for fuck's sake." 

"You should," Yuuri agrees, smiling innocently beside Yuri. "Or he won't let you be alone." 

"Ugh," Viktor sighs and puts his feet on the floor, after giving Yuri a baleful glare. He catches Yuuri smirking beside him, leaning against the threshold of the door.

"I hate you," he says, with feeling, meaning every word, but he doesn't know which Yuri he was talking to. 

-x-

Yuuri was just pouring detergent into the washing machine when Viktor snuck up on him and wound his arms around his waist, nuzzling into his neck.

"Viktor," Yuuri laughed, putting down the detergent and starting the cycle, "what are you doing?"

"Recharging." 

"What?"

"I didn't have enough Yuuri for the last week," Viktor pouted, and traced his lips up Yuuri's neck to behind his ear, "I missed you, darling."

Yuuri turned in Viktor's arms and kissed his nose, his hands rubbing Viktor's arms. Yuuri smiled, all crinkled eyes and soft skin, and he was beautiful. The laundry machine whirled and Viktor backed away from Yuuri, just a few steps, before bending his waist and extending his hand to Yuuri.

"May I have this dance?" 

"Of course," Yuuri breathed, placing his hand into Viktor's and they waltzed to the melody of the sounds of the machine, utterly lost in each other. Yuuri's hands on his shoulders. His musky warmth and smooth steps, fitting perfectly with Viktor. His bright, fond eyes, the sliding spectacles, the sweet smile. Viktor loves him most in this world.

The sun slants and throws light into the little corner where the laundry machine stands, and they dance to a melody only they can hear.

-x- 

"Viktor," Yuuri hissed, frustrated as Viktor pulled off his earbud and blew on his ear. "I'm _in the middle of something_."

"You're ignoring me," he pointed out petulantly, "I don't like this."

"I told you I'm busy-"

"I haven't seen you in so long-" 

"I only went for five days this time-"

"And now you're ignoring me to do something you haven't told me about-"

"I don't have to tell you everything I do, do I-"

In a moment, hurt flashed across Viktor's face that was quickly wiped away with a neutral face and a fake, wide smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Sure you don't," he said easily, even if his voice was strained. Yuuri faltered and watched as Viktor walked out of the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," Viktor said, without turning, "I don't have to tell you everything _I_ do, don't I."

"Viktor-" 

When Viktor returned with after his walk, Yuuri was pacing at the living room. His face crumpled with relief when he sees Viktor, but he doesn't go to embrace him, simply standing where he was and looking at Viktor. He had worried Yuuri, he can see, and felt a little guilty, but he was still a little sullen from their fight. Viktor just pulled off his coat and padded towards their bedroom without any word. As he brushed past Yuuri, he reached out to grab his hand.

"You didn't eat dinner before you left," he said, his voice light but less casual than he intended. "I made katsudon."

When Viktor turned to face him, Yuuri wa looking at him with apologetic eyes. He accepted the apology for what it is as he stepped closer to Yuuri and kissed his forehead, warming his chilled body in Yuuri's warmth.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri mumbled against his throat, and Viktor hummed in contentment as he pulled him closer. Yuuri smelt like his mint shampoo, deliciously warm. "Minami isn't doing well and I was just trying to think of a better jump composition..."

"Show me," Viktor said, and Yuuri bent up to kiss his chin before smiling a little at him. 

"Yes, coach," Yuuri murmured, a laugh in his voice, "but after dinner, since you went out to sulk." 

"I did miss you," Viktor huffed, and Yuuri's eyes softened. He touched Viktor's face with light fingers, like he was touching a miracle. _God_ , Viktor thought, _how much else can I love you_? Viktor exhaled the surge of affection and his fingers dug into Yuuri's shoulders.

"I did, too," Yuuri replied tenderly, and kissed Viktor again, before lacing their fingers together leading him to the table. 

-x-

Everywhere aches. The sun is pale and weak. The vodka bottle lays smashed in its corner. On the dining table is a mess of barely touched meals, forgotten groceries and stacked plates, cups and cutlery. The sink full of unwashed dishes, and all around the floor is grimy. The apartment is freezing, but Viktor doesn't bother turning up the heat. He’s seated at the little Japanese home-shrine, where Makkachin’s and Yuuri’s picture sit side-by-side. His head is splitting into half, his mouth dry, and he doesn't think he'd drank so much in a while. Not since Yuri witch-hunted his entire house (again) and forced a compromise from him. But today is particularly difficult.

Yuuri sits beside him, quietly humming _Stammi Vicino_.

“It’s today, isn’t it.” 

“Yes.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Everyday.”

Yuuri is quiet for long moments. “I died, Viktor, but you’re still alive.”

“Which is why this is worse.”

“…did you really think we would die together?”

“I imagined I would die before you. That we would have at least another thirty years ahead of us." 

“Twenty-four years is long, Viktor.”

“It’s not long enough. I could have forever with you and it still won’t be enough.”

Yuuri exhales noisily through his nose. “But it is what it is. You have to carry on, Viktor. I would be worried.” 

“That’s what everyone says, but you’re dead, aren’t you?”

“They just want to help.” 

Viktor snorts. “Unless they bring you back to life, it’s not going to work.”

The phone rings, and Viktor picks it up and puts it to his ear.

“Vitya, get ready, I’m coming over.”

“What?”

"All of us are coming over, it's Yuuri's death anniversary and we-”

“Don't come."

"What?"

"Don't come," Viktor repeats. "I don't want to see any of you."

“… I’m disappointed in you,” Yuri says, deadly low, anger brimming in his voice. "You're not going to let the rest of us pay our respects-"

“Yurio. I can’t." 

“God fucking damn it, Viktor.”

Yuri is at the door half an hour later, and he lets himself in, stands at the door and looks at Viktor, who hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the little altar.

“Get dressed.”

“No.”

“It’s his _death anniversary_.”

“I know.”

“ _Why_ won't you let us do this? Why? We loved him too, we miss him too. He's not just-"

“Because,” Viktor begins, and pauses, then takes in a deep breath. “Because I can’t.”

“Can’t or you don’t want to?" 

“You’re going to stay in here alone and mope around.”

Viktor doesn’t reply.

“It’s been a year. A whole fucking year-”

“It has been a year, Vitya." 

“-I’m not saying that it’s not going to hurt, I’m saying that it’s time for you to face the fact that he’s dead and he’s not coming back and all you can do is remember him the best way you can and _move on_ -”

“-he’s right, you know.”

“He’s right,” Viktor snorts, “you say that as if it’s so easy, like I can just wake up one day and be fine with the fact that you’re gone.” 

“Viktor.”

“I am you and you are me,” Viktor says quietly. “Don’t you see?”

Yuuri is still seated beside him, out of the corner of his eye, and his face is unreadable.

“I was reading that book, you know. Someone recommended it to me, I can't remember - but - 'whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’. I can't live when you aren't. I died when you died. Why can't people see this? It's ridiculous - ridiculous. I can't just pick myself up and go on living like it's fine. It's not. I need you. I _need_ you."

"Oh, Viktor," Yuuri murmurs, his voice soft and deceptively tender. Yuuri puts his arms around him and if Viktor concentrates, he can feel the warmth. "I'm sorry."

"Then come back to me. I'll take you anyway. Bones and all."

"You won't like me that much, I think," Yuuri laughs, but he sounds sad. "I need you to move on, Viktor. I won't be happy seeing you like this."

 “You’re still so stubborn,” Viktor muttered, “I mean, you’re inside my head. How are you still so irritatingly loyal to yourself?”

“This is all you, Viktor.” 

“…VIKTOR.”  Viktor blinks, as cold hands shake him. He looks up, into frantic green eyes. 

“What?”

“Who are you talking to?” Yuri’s face is crumpling, like he already knows the answer. He looks terrified.

Viktor looks at him, and looks back at Yuuri. “I-” He flaps a hand at the direction where Yuuri is, arms crossed around his chest, faintly disapproving. “He’s just- he’s right there. Yuuri.” 

Yuri is staring at him horrified, and Viktor realises that he’s just confessed to talking to Yuuri. His dead husband, and Viktor, realising how crazy he sounds, snorts out a laugh.

“I’m going back to bed.” 

“Viktor.”

“I’m fine, really, I am.”

“You’re not fine!” Yuri screams at him, and Viktor just takes it, closing his eyes, and Yuuri sighs in his head.

_“There you’ve done it, Vitya.”_

_“It’s not my fault. He asked who I was talking to.”_

_“He’s just worried. This is not good.”_

_“Yeah, I noticed. You’re dead, after all.”_  

“Are you listening?!”

“…no.”

“I said I’m taking you to the psychologist.”

“I’m fine. I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t get a choice." 

-x- 

“My turn today," Yuuri told him, and Viktor shrugged as laid down on the couch, and Yuuri choose a rom-com and tucked himself against Viktor, back to chest.

The couch is too small for two grown men, but the squeeze is negligible. The snow outside is thick, and snowflakes are still drifting down the sky. Viktor nuzzled his nose into Yuuri’s neck and Yuuri huffed.

“Vitya, don’t distract me.”

“Mmm." 

Yuuri's hair was still thick, but more closely cropped to his head, his glasses wire-rimmed. He was still beautiful, more refined and confident, and smelt like their mint shampoo and something distinctly _Yuuri_ that speaks of home. He is warm skin and quiet joy. He is love. 

“ _Vitya,”_ Yuuri sighed, giving up on the movie as Viktor kissed his neck and sucked a bruise on his shoulder. He turned, fondness tugging his plush mouth even though he tried to look disapproving. He never quite managed to lose the cheek fat, but Viktor loves it anyway. Viktor bent to press a chaste kiss on his mouth, and another, and another, until Yuuri pressed his hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him away, his mouth a smile against Viktor’s. It was warm, a throw covering their legs, and the movie was whispering love lines in the background. Viktor pressed his face into Yuuri's fragrant hair. 

"Vitya," Yuuri sighed again, and Viktor hummed, laying kisses on the brown hair. 

"Yuuri," Viktor replied gravelly, wiggling so they're face to face. Yuuri's eyes were bright, and Viktor presses their mouths together again.

"Stop it," Yuuri giggled, between kisses, but Viktor continued and bit Yuuri under his jaw, sucking lazily, until he was pushed away again.

"I love you," Viktor mumbled into Yuuri's neck, and Yuuri's hand carded through his hair. 

"I love you too, you big, old sap."

"I'm not old."

"You passed the fifty mark, you are old."

"Yuuri," Viktor gasped, scandalised, "I'm so hurt."

Yuuri laughed and bopped his nose with his finger, and Viktor pretends to frown at him.

"You're still pretty, old man."

"Don't say it like that," Viktor complained, his hands stroking Yuuri's hair and down his back. "It sounds like Yurio calling me."

Yuuri huffed a laugh and then easy silence drifted over them.

"Have you thought about it?" Yuuri asked after a while, and Viktor was roused from his doze. 

"What?"

"Who'll go first."

Viktor stiffened, just a little, and Yuuri traced his eyebrow with a loving hand.

"No," he said finally, "I don't want to think about that."

Yuuri nodded, unusually solemn.

"But," Viktor continued, "it'll be me. I'm older, after all." 

Yuuri ran his finger across Viktor's smooth cheek. "It's hard to say," he murmured, "age doesn't really matter, does it?"

"But life without you would be unthinkable. Unspeakable. You won't do that to me right, Yuuri?"

"I'll try not to," Yuuri said lightly, his voice holding the trace of a laugh. "If, though, if," he sensed that Viktor didn't want to speak about this anymore, so he quickly continued, "if I left first, what would you do?" 

"Die of loneliness. And misery." Viktor returned the question, resting their foreheads together. Yuuri's eyes were dark, swirling with something. "What about you? If I left first?"

Yuuri closed his eyes, as if imagining, then his features twisted into sudden anguish. His eyes opened again, then, loosening a breath, bent to kiss Viktor's mouth. "I don't know," he muttered finally, "but I think I would die soon after you." 

Their apartment fell into quiet, thoughtful silence. Snow fell.

-x-

He was happy, Viktor remembers, staring at the light, washed-out blue walls, when Yuuri said that. Yuuri never made pronouncements of his love easily, only reserved for special occasions or difficult times, but he said his love clearly and simply in statements like this, unaware of how happy these declarations would make Viktor. Perhaps Viktor should have told him _no, live for me_ or something sappy crap like that, but he was happy. He wanted to always be with Yuuri, never be away, always be within arm's reach, even in death. How things have turned out. Viktor laughs sardonically to himself. Die of loneliness and misery indeed. Did people die of broken hearts? Viktor might. He knew what Yuuri meant when he said he would die soon after Viktor, because he thought he would, too. Why wasn't he dead yet, then? Why did he have to suffer without his love? 

A cough brought his attention back to the psychologist's room. Viktor thinks the walls are supposed to be tranquil, but it makes him feel like he is in a hospital. The floor to ceiling windows are clear, and outside, a flurry of white is falling rapidly.

“It’s snowing.”

“Yes.”

“Can I leave now?”

“…you’ve only been here for five minutes.”

“I know. I was forced to come here.” 

“Mr Plisetsky said you were talking to your dead husband.” 

Viktor doesn’t say a word. 

“How long has this been?”

“…” 

“I cannot help if you don’t talk to me, Viktor.” 

“…” 

“Viktor?”

“This is not going to help.”

“What is going to help?” 

Viktor closes his eyes. “I just want Yuuri back.”

-x-

Legend has it that Orpheus’s grief translated to his lyre and moved the gods, even Hades, to get back his wife Eurydice.

Except he didn’t have enough trust that she’d follow, and he’d really lost her for good. Disappeared into thin air, and not even his lyre could move the gods a second time.

Viktor never believed in gods. But he is willing to beg them for Yuuri to come back. Willing to become Orpheus, go to Hades for his love. Plow through the River Styx and its broken human dreams for Yuuri. Willing to walk amongst the dead, with nothing but his heart on his sleeve, offered hot and bleeding in his hands. _Give him back to me,_ he’d say, _Yuuri is not yours, he is mine_. He would hang onto blind faith and aching hope, until they both reached the surface and Viktor could hold Yuuri in his arms again. But gods aren't real. If they were, they would have heard Viktor's pleading and gave him back his lover. Yuuri, _cor cordium_. Viktor's heart of hearts. It could be an easy trade to make, because even if Viktor gave his heart away, with Yuuri, he could still be alive. Easily. Yuuri and he are one, after all.

Viktor’s hand rests over his traitorous heart, still beating away strong even through Viktor is so, so, so tired. His eyes trace the ceiling, and his hand clutch onto the fabric of his shirt, crumpling it. 

His phone rings, dragging him out from his thoughts. It is an overseas number. Viktor considers letting it ring on forever, but guilt bites him. He picks it up dully. 

“Viktor.”

“Mari.”

“Kaasan wants to know if you’ll come for the New Year’s.” 

“…” 

“…” Mari was never one for words, and Viktor had never been more grateful for it.

“I can’t,” he whispers finally, and Mari doesn’t say a word. The static of the telephone is loud.

“We all miss you,” she says quietly. Viktor thinks she has to know about his condition. Yurio speaks to Yuuko, after all. 

“I’ll come when I can,” Viktor says, and they both know it is an empty promise.

“Yeah,” Mari says, “talk to you later, Viktor.”

“Yeah.” The call disconnects.

 -x-

“Yuuuuuuri,” Viktor whines, and Yuuri chuckles, deep and warm, thousands of miles away.

“Vitya, what’s wrong?”

“My bed is cold without you.” 

“I’m only gone for three days.”

“That’s too long,” Viktor said mulishly.

“You’re such a baby.”

“Video call me. I want to see your face.”

“Hang on.”

Yuuri disconnected and moments later, Viktor’s phone rang and his face appeared on the screen.

“Yuuri!” 

“Hello, Vitya,” Yuuri grinned. He was reclined in the bed, with the blue sheets pulled up over his lap. His glasses were off, and his eyes were wide and amused. “You should be sleeping,” Yuuri chided. 

“I miss you too much to be able to sleep.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Yuuri chuckled, and Viktor shifted in his bed, turning and propping the phone up so he could see Yuuri’s face better. 

“It’s not fine,” Viktor whined. “I want to eat Mama Hiroko’s cooking. I want to see you in that beautiful suit I bought you. I bet Mari and Yuuko miss me. And I want to sleep with you on your bed.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri laughed, “we’ll be coming over for the New Year anyway.”

Viktor made a face. “I knew I shouldn’t have convinced you to go. Now I’m lonely.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, but his mouth was tilted up. “Don’t pout, now.”

“How is the competition going?”

Yuuri smiled, “It went well, but it was so noisy; there were so many people."

"Were they all hanging around you?" Viktor demands, "did anyone accost you?"

"Viktor," Yuuri sighs heavily, even though he looked like he was going to laugh, "by now it's difficult to _not_ know I'm married to the world's biggest child."

"Yes, but it doesn't mean anyone would stop trying. You're gorgeous." 

Yuuri rolled his eyes again, but Viktor caught the blush that bloomed on his face. 

"You're so embarrassing." 

"It's true," Viktor insisted, "the new cashier at the supermarket has a crush on you, you know. He looked so sad when I went alone yesterday." 

"Nonsense." 

"He also blushes everytime you talk to him."

"It's because of the lights-"

"Remember that time he turned so red when you bought condoms?" 

"..."

"And when he tried to give you his number and I had to-"

"Make a fuss?"

"It's not a fuss, he had to know you are _married_ and very happily married."

"I am," Yuuri says, voice soft, his eyes searching Viktor's, bright even across the grainy screen. Viktor wants to reach across the continent and pull him into his arms, sleep-soft and warm. They were silent for a moment, simply watching each other, and listening to the breathing across the phone line.

“What is the time there?”

“Nearly 2am.”

“Go and sleep, you.”

“I want to sleep with you.”

“Leave the call on then,” Yuuri said, his eyes gleaming with fondness. “I’ll disconnect when you fall asleep.”

Viktor hummed and wedged the phone in between the pillows, eyes half-lidded as he listened to Yuuri breathe across the static. All to soon, sleep caught up with him, and he fell asleep, his hand stretched towards Yuuri.

-x-

Viktor blinks his eyes open, to the now empty side of his bed, his hand stretched out to nothingness, chilled in the cool air. Yuuri is closed, shuttered to him, in an impregnable place. He rolls onto his back. _Stop all the clocks_ , _cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone_. How does it end? ... _For nothing now can come to any good_. How apt, he thinks, how true, and his hand creeps up, to rest against his chest. When his heartbeat becomes too discomforting to feel, he forces himself out of his bed. Wanders through his house, like a guest, a ghost, unmoored from where he belongs. Notes Yuuri's ever-present absence, dully feeling the familiar ache of anguish. Feet sweeping against his cool floor, only one set, odd. He sits himself at the sofa, curls up in it. When the silence becomes oppressive, he turns on the television. His eyes fixed blankly on the screen, his thoughts scattering.

-x- 

Viktor loved watching Yuuri dress. There was something secretive, intimate about seeing his lover's naked body becoming clothed, like a deep tug into love. That morning, Yuuri stepped out of the bed after pressing a kiss on Viktor's forehead. He always roused when Yuuri left the bed. Something about his body registering absence, perhaps, and resisting it. Yuuri padded into the ensuite, moments later, the sounds of the toilet flushing, teeth brushing, and water running came through. Viktor dozed off, but his eyes fluttered open as Yuuri stepped out. He shifted for a better angle as Yuuri went towards the wardrobe and dropped his sweatpants onto the floor. His spine shifted under his skin as he moved, and Viktor thought about going over to press his fingers into the familiar divots at the bottom of his spine. Viktor resisted, however, content to watch for now. Yuuri pulled out a pair of boxers and slid it up his legs in sleepy, careless elegance, then rummaged through the wardrobe for his pants. Next came a black button-down shirt, the fabric whispering across Yuuri's skin and hiding its paleness. He half-turned, as if towards Viktor's half-lidded gaze, and Viktor watched contentedly as Yuuri's fingers pushed each button through its hole absent-mindedly, before tucking his shirt into his pants. The belt clinked as he threaded it through the loopholes. He looked up from his task and met Viktor's eyes, and his lips curved into a private smile. _My man_ , Viktor thought, and let his lips curl back in a lazy smile as Yuuri turned back to the mirror and adjusted his collar. He reached inside the wardrobe again.

"Bow-tie," Viktor said, his voice hoarse with sleep, "the black with white outlines."

Yuuri took out that bow-tie, hung the untied strap around his neck and then went over to sit on the bed. His hand was warm where he smoothed back Viktor's hair. Viktor purred at the back of his throat and sat up, leaning into Yuuri's chest as he sighed happily, rubbing his cold nose against Yuuri's warm skin. He pulled back after a while, and with nimble, experienced fingers, tied the bow-tie for his husband, taking his time to perfect every move. He straightened the bow and dropped a kiss onto the bottom Yuuri's throat, lingering for a moment as he felt the _ba-thump_ under his lips. Then he pulled away and tugged at a lock of Yuuri's hair. Their eyes met again, and Viktor was pressed down, against the sheets, Yuuri's minty mouth pressing against his. He pulled away too soon, and Viktor pouted, making Yuuri bend down again to appease him with more kisses. Viktor curled into Yuuri's body, running his fingers across the smooth fabric of his shirt.

"I love you," Yuuri told him, and Viktor swallowed the words whole, and felt them sink into his bones, giddy and warm.

"I love you too," Viktor murmured, and then yawned a little. "Come back to me soon."

"Of course," Yuuri laughed, "where else would I go back to?" 

Viktor watched as his husband shrug on his jacket and step out of the room, throwing a glance and quick grin before the door swung shut behind him. Viktor fell back asleep smiling. 

But Yuuri never came back to Viktor that day.

Instead, there were two men at the door. Strangers in uniform. They looked strange. Everything looked a bit like it is underwater. There were sounds coming to him, and Viktor hysterically wondered if they might be mermaids. Viktor stared and stared and stared, and their mouths are moving but he cannot hear them.

“Just- wait,” Viktor said, marveling at the steadiness at his voice, and he clutched at the door handle. He pulled out his phone and called Yuri.

“-fuck, Viktor, what-” 

“I need to go to the hospital,” Viktor tells him, and Yuri inhaled sharply. 

“What’s wrong-”

“There are two people here, they said-” Viktor tried to keep the hysterical laughter that seemed to be bubbling inside him, “they said-”

“ _What?_ ” 

Viktor coughed, “it’s Yuuri.” His mind was spinning out of control. His legs don’t seem to support him. “Yuuri- he-”

“Which hospital?”

Viktor told him, and then he followed the two policemen in the car after pulling on his coat and shoes. The only thing he seems to register is the smell of incense that had lingered in the house as he left, the one Yuuri had lighted for Makkachin before he left, and had already burned to ashes. 

-x-

 _What is this smell_ , Viktor thought, as incense is placed on the altar, mixed with the sickeningly sweet smell of the cherry blossoms. The cherry blossom trees seem to droop, as if life had been sucked out of them. Viktor stood beside the Katsuki family, Hiroko quietly crying with Toshiya's arm around her, Mari pale and unmoving beside him. Minako was grim, stoic, though her eyes had glistened with tears. Viktor absently registers Yuuko sobbing into Takeshi's shoulder, the triplets holding hands and crying silently, Phichit stifling his cries into choked sniffles. Yuri's eyes were closed; tears were streaming down his face. The rest of the relatives, and what seemed like most of Hasetsu stood a little way back. Viktor felt nothing. He hasn't felt a thing since they'd had cremated Yuuri's body in Russia, nothing when they'd picked his bones and placed them into the urn, nothing when he took the flight to Japan. Nothing when the urn had been placed into the ground. He felt like his insides had been carved out and placed in the ground, inside the urn that contained Yuuri’s bones. They were bleached white, Viktor remembered, with their solid fragility laying innocuously in a plastic box, ready for the family to lovingly put them in the urn. _Of his bones are coral made./ Those are pearls that were his eyes._ Yuuri was soft, so beautiful, and Viktor loved him very much, so much that he thought his love would etch itself on his bones. Everyone was the same inside, just bones, white and fragile. There is only this beyond skin and flesh. Death changes the body, Viktor thinks, but not the heart. The wind whistled through the trees, and Viktor just wanted to sleep the day away. He wasn't clocking the hours, but it felt like he had just tied Yuuri's bow-tie for him and was waiting for him to return home for dinner. But Yuuri was dead. That was the last bow-tie he would ever tie for him. He wasn't coming back. 

The relatives were speaking quietly amongst themselves as they returned to the inn, and Viktor mechanically drank the tea and ate the food set in front of him. The night fell and people left. Phichit wrapped his arms around Viktor and held onto him tight, and left. _Don’t be a stranger, Viktor_ , he’d said, and Viktor had nodded. Yuuko had opened her mouth to say something to Viktor, but Takeshi had shot her a look and she'd shut her mouth and be led away, tear tracks still glinting on her face. The triplets had hugged him, and he'd hugged back, but he hadn't felt a thing. Minako took a look at his face, and left him alone. He just sat there, staring into space. Then Mari dropped beside him, her cigarette acrid in the cold air. They'd sat in silence, Mari smoking away and Viktor lost. 

"How did he die?"

"Car accident."

"I know," Mari said, frustrated, "I mean, _how_? When? Why?"

Viktor didn't answer, just clutched at the table side, and tried to breathe through his nose. The anguish that seemed to be held at bay the last few days rushed out and through his veins, and he felt like he was burning in hell. How? Viktor thought, struggling to expand his shrunken lungs, how did the son of the bitch kill my Yuuri? How did he run him over? Why?

"...Viktor? Viktor!" 

"Sorry-" he rasped, voice dry, "I can't-"

Mari placed a cup of water in front of him, and her eyes were unreadable. Viktor took a sip and placed the rest down, and they'd resumed their silence. Viktor’s breathing is loud and harsh, and he thought he might be shaking.

Mari stood up and pushed a box at him, bigger than a shoe box. Viktor looked at it, but didn't touch it. 

"Take it with you." 

Viktor just stared at her.

“I found this when I was cleaning his room,” Mari said, “He would have wanted you to have it-" Her voice cracked, and she breathed in a shuddering breath, her face twisted in fierce anguish. 

Viktor opened the box, and there was a pair of children’s skates, scuffed and worn old, but clearly cared for. There was a little photo of Viktor after he’d won his first World Championship, grinning at the camera, his hair tied up into a high pony tail. Viktor doesn’t even remember taking it. There were two old, worn Japanese charms, a black leather watch that had stopped. Ratty laces. A dog’s collar. Child ballet shoes, broken. A little musical box that had a pair of dancers painted on them. A small, smooth pebble, grey and speckled. A piece of red string.

Viktor couldn't speak. He took the box into his hands and pressed it close to his chest, closing his eyes and feeling the coldness of its flat surface. He felt a sob pressing in his throat; he felt like his skin like been flayed open and displayed for all to see, his corrupted blue veins sorrow-filled. Yuuri had so many more stories to tell him, but there wasn’t enough time. They’d decided to take time away from the both of them. He’d thought they’d a whole life, when they were old and grey and limping when they walked. Not like this, not when Yuuri was still dark haired and healthy, not when they were supposed to have a long, long time ahead of them. 

He looked up at her, not able to say anything. She was holding back tears, looking utterly devastated, her eyes fixed on the little trinket box. Their eyes met, and Viktor had to look away, wondering what she saw in his face.

She patted him once on the shoulder, and left him there, at the table, the box clutched close to his heart.

-x- 

Viktor sits and takes out the box of things, and laid them out of the table neatly. His fingers stroke across this cabinet of curiosities, which Yuuri loved enough to hide them in a box, away from prying eyes. He can understand some of them, Viktor’s picture, the skates, the ballet shoes, the dog collar, but he draws a blank on the rest of them. Why did Yuuri keep a pebble or a piece of string or laces? Who gave him the music box? The charms, what event were they for? Why did he not fix the watch?

Viktor feels a stinging at the back of his eyes; he is frustrated, upset, and he wants to tear his hair out, wants to shake Yuuri and ask him why.

He pulls himself up, suddenly filled with the burning desire to get out and run, and he did, pulling on loose pants and track shoes, and a random coat, running down to the seaside, where it crashes against his shoes, soaking them wet. The sand afoot seeps into his shoes, and Viktor looks out at the dark waters. The stars are cold in a distance, the waves whisper melancholically. The Sirens are calling, a long, drawn-out wail. He steps into the water, cold and dark and welcoming. The ocean stretches, as far as the eye can see, endless. Eerie and lonely in the time of day, when light is falling. The water clings onto his pants, but in he goes, further and further until it reached his shoulders, and he closes his eyes and pulls himself into water. The cold is biting, fierce, sending a shock through his body. For the first time in many months, Viktor feels _alive_.  

Viktor surfaces for air, gasping, and he takes a gulping breath before pulling himself under water again. Eyes squeezed shut, with the taste of salt in his mouth. He holds his breath until his lungs might burst.

 _This reminds me of the ocean at St Petersburg._ Yuuri beside him, eyes downcast, Makkachin warm and panting under his hand. The surge of love in his veins, and the need for possession. Yuuri's abrupt movement, and his determined, purple-hazel eyes, shadowed against the pale blue, optimistic sky. The thrill of Yuuri surprising him.

 _I want you to be yourself, Viktor._  

Viktor surfaces, coughing wildly, and it is suddenly clear to him.

-x-

“I’m leaving.” 

“Where?” 

“Anywhere.” 

“You can’t just up and leave.”

“I can.” 

“But-”

“I can’t stay here. Yuuri is everywhere and I can’t- I don’t know how to- I’m just going to leave. Travel the world.”

“…If you think it is better.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

Viktor pulls Yuri into his arms and hugs him, and he hugs Viktor back with considerable force.

“…go and get better, old man.”

-x-

Yuuri laying across him in another bland hotel room, his face smooth, breathing deep, his hair falling into his eyes. He seemed so young, so fragile, and Viktor marveled at how it made him feel protective, something he had never felt before Yuuri. He realised, in such fleeting moments, that he'd never wanted to hold onto something so tightly before he had met this beautiful man.

Yuuri dancing on ice, elegant, suspenseful, full of stories and lyricism. Yuuri, looking up at him from under his eyelashes and blushing as he slid on the ring on Viktor’s fourth finger, the lights bathing him in an ethereal glow, the sounds of a celebrating choir surrounding them. Almost a holy, if impromptu, sacramental ceremony. Asking him to say something. Yuuri, blurred by lights and smiling at him, just a small, shy smile, shiny eyes, windswept hair, pink cheeks, and Viktor had thought he was the entire universe, and felt so much love and yearning rush through his veins.

Yuuri coughing wildly at the spicy hot pot, making a face. Yuuri kissing him, soft and slow, heavy on his lap, the lights of Shanghai behind him. Smiling against his lips in a fierce, quiet joy.

Yuuri in the country he loved most. His serenity, his sense of belonging. Yuuri in the onsen, flushed, towel placed on his head, eyes closed in bliss, hair damp and pushed away from his face, unaware of his innocent sensuality. Yuuri laying beside him on his single bed, their hands entwined loosely between them as they stayed silent and enjoyed the presence of the other, the white noise of the inn and its patrons ignored. Contented to have the other near.

Yuuri, who had an uneasy relationship with Detroit. Yuuri, whose hand would be warm and tightly held in Viktor's as they walked down the cobble-stone streets of Edinburgh, enjoying the grey gloominess and winding streets that lead anywhere.

Even beyond Russia, Yuuri dodges his every step. Makes oceans wail and storms sing in Viktor. Makes him hate memories. Makes him want, yearn, ache, dream. 

Slowly, Viktor lets go. Time blunts his pain. Doesn’t shake his yearning. Buffers him from one country to another, in places where they’d loved, in places where they haven't been.

Viktor skates where he goes. It was theirs, and he feels most connected to Yuuri on it.

He keeps returning to a small town in Japan. Keeps to his own. He finds it ironic that he feels most whole in Yuuri's home country, a place where it hurts most but soothes as well.

Yuuri doesn’t talk to him anymore. 

It takes five years, but Viktor thinks he is better. He doesn’t feel like the ground is going to crumble under his feet at any moment, and sunlight has become kinder each morning. The nights are still cold and difficult, and they sometimes whisper to him, things that he doesn’t want to hear. He has dreams that touch where it hurts, and no one to wake up to. But he takes it in stride. Sometimes grief visits him, but he knows how to handle her better; sadness becomes an old friend, but Viktor knows better than to allow her to prolong her obtrusive stay.

Yuuri would be proud of him, he thinks.

-x- 

Viktor takes a train to Hasetsu. He’d visited Yuuri’s altar, placed flowers there, and the cherry blossoms waved in the breeze. He’d sat there quietly, the sun spilling out behind clouds; it is a beautiful day. He talks to Yuuri. Tells him of his travels. Where he though Yuuri might like, where he might not like. Yuuri doesn’t talk back, but Viktor is fine with that. Then, as the sky streaks in pinks and oranges, he rises, murmurs his goodbyes, pressing his hand to his heart, and leaves. 

Viktor stands with his head ducked down at the entrance of Yu-topia, biting his lip and unsure if the Katuski family would want to see him at all, having maintained nearly a five-year silence. He is desperately out of depth, and he itches to run out.

“Vicchan!”

Viktor looks up to see Hiroko, a warm smile gracing her face, and Viktor is taken aback by the sheer resemblance Yuuri had to his mum. He’d forgotten that they smiled the same way, eyes crinkled and mouth stretched into a lovely shape. He smiles back uncertainly. 

“Mama Hiroko,” he says, and then she is hugging him tightly, with an immense amount of strength for such a small woman. 

“Toshiya,” she calls, and Yuuri’s father comes out, a little slower, and pats Viktor on the back. 

“Hello, Vicchan. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Way too long,” Mari says flatly, although her smile is no less warm. “Hello, Viktor.”

“I’m home,” Viktor says, his throat aching, and he hugs Hiroko again.

They push him towards Yuuri’s room, and Viktor cautiously takes a deep breath before he steps in. The anguished sadness is predictable, but it chokes him only for a moment before he lets it out in a long breath. 

“Hello, Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, and his hands trail over the faded wallpaper and posters of him. The room is clean, arranged as always, and the sheets are fresh and laundered. They’ve kept this room alive, Viktor realises, whether in memory of Yuuri or for him, he cannot tell. Viktor shoves his luggage to the side and sits at the center of the room, and thinks about his husband as a child, growing in the same room, his husband as a teenager and his husband as a adult, all wrapped up in this room of this. His own face smiles down at him from all angles, and Viktor lets out a wet laugh. He had obnoxiously signed all of them with a silver pen when Mari had cheekily put them up again after Yuuri left, to his horror when he returned with Viktor right behind him. Viktor inhales, and feels his heart thudding in his chest. The air is clear, and smells of cherry blossoms. Spring has come. He leans his head against the bed, and touches his face, a little surprised at the tears that stream down his face. 

The curtains flutter. Viktor hears the quiet murmurs and shuffling of the visitors in the inn. The footsteps outside the door. He feels at peace, sadness gentle and indulgent, no longer abrasive. He closes his eyes, and lets go. 

“Viktor, would you like lunch?” Mari calls at the door.

“Of course, Mari,” Viktor says, and rubs his eyes before standing up and greeting the woman at the door, who chances a look at his face but doesn’t say a word. She shoves a yukata at him.

“Change and come down.”

Viktor pulls on the yukata, familiar with the motions despite not having wearing one for so long. He smiles down at the dark blue fabric with floral patterns, despite Yuuri saying it wasn’t really tradition for men to have flowers on their yukatas. 

“Vicchan, here’s yours,” Hiroko said, setting down a huge bowl of Kastudon in front of Viktor, and he smiles at her, before digging it. He suddenly feels 27 again, seated in their humble inn and eating a lovely bowl of food. He stops after a while, ducks his head and laughs quietly, ignoring the tears that spring up. 

“What’s wrong, Vicchan?”

“Nothing,” he says, lifting his head and giving her a bright grin, “I’m just being…nostalgic.”

She smiles kindly at him, and gently reaches forward to brush his hair back. The touch is fiercely nostalgic, and Viktor's throat tightens. “I see,” she says quietly, and then sits herself opposite him, with Toshiya and Mari joining moments later. 

They eat, quietly, and then when Mari makes to clear the dishes, and Hiroko brings out the tea set, Viktor clears his throat.

“I wanted to speak to all of you.”

“Yes, Vicchan?” 

“I wanted to apologise," he says, his smile just a tinge of sheepish. "I am sorry."

"We understand, Vicchan," Hiroko returns, quiet. Her eyes flicker to the Japanese altar where Yuuri's smiling picture is propped up against, tidy and clean. "It must have been difficult."

Viktor welcomes the grief that tugs at his heart. It’s never going to not hurt, after all. 

“I love him," Viktor tells them, "I still do. I cannot stop." He fingers the ring he is still wearing. "I hope you still consider me your son-in-law." 

"Of course," Hiroko replies, and she rests her hand on top of Viktor's ringed one. "You'll always be our son-in-law." 

"I miss him so much," Viktor's voice cracked, and he presses his other hand over his face for an instant, "and I know you all do too. And I know you've heard everything from Yurio... but..." he swallows, "but if you'd like to hear from me..."

"If it's too difficult, then don't," Mari says quietly. Her cigarette glowed at the end as she took a deep breath. 

"It will never not be difficult," Viktor swallows around the lump in his throat.

Then, with a beat of silence, he started talking. He talked about the event Yuuri was invited to. He talked about Yuuri calling him telling him he was returning home, and that he was taking the train. And then he talked about the evening, when he waited for his husband to come back. 

“Two men came to our house.” Viktor tries to swallow back his tears. “I went- went to the hospital, and he was there," Viktor chokes again and presses his fingers against his eyes. "He was there," he repeated, and said no more. He viciously shoves away at the memory that rises unbidden. He’s better yes, but sometimes still can’t be touched without burning him. That’ll always be one memory he wants to bury, under heaps of stone.

Viktor takes a long, shuddering breath. “There- there was no pain," he whispers, "it was- instantaneous. That son of a bitch-” Viktor remembers the bloodshot eyes, the wide, desperate eyes, the disheveled hair, and the fierce, boiling hatred, remembers his blind lunge and his punches, vicious, bright red and fierce. They’d pulled him off, of course, and Viktor had hissed at him, had shouted, and then broken down, and Yuri had dragged him into his car, where Viktor had wept, and fallen asleep, and then spent the next months – more than a year - blank and numb. “He was drunk. And Yuuri - he - was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” His voice cracks, shudders under the anguish.

He took another breath and thinks _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay_.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this before.”

Hiroko was crying, and Toshiya had gathered her in his arms, and Mari brushed her tears back. She smiled weakly at Viktor, and then put her arms around her parents also. Viktor felt like he was intruding on a family moment, and turned his face away, but Hiroko reached her hand out, and he was pulled into the hug, the quiet grieving. 

“Thank you for telling us.”

-x-

Minako comes at night, and she seems to have barely aged, despite the white streaks in her hair. “Viktor,” she chides, pulling on his ear, and Viktor winces, but good-naturedly allows her to do it, “where has your scruffy face been for the last five years?” 

“Sorry,” he apologises, trying to twist away. “I was just-"

“I know,” she huffs, and finally let go, and Viktor cradles his ear and scowls at her.

“None of that with me,” she says, and plops herself down at one of the tables. “Come drink with me, Nikiforov.”

“Katsuki-Nikiforov,” Viktor corrects her absent-mindedly, and Minako looks at him for a long time, her eyes dropping to the ring that still sits on his finger, and she smiles, sad and wistful.

“My bad.” 

"Also, I've been sober for 3 years, so..."

"Ah. Then we can just drink tea, then."

Hiroko brings them a pot of tea, smiling fondly at both of them, and Viktor and Minako sip their drink and talk. 

The next morning, he eats breakfast with the Katsuki family.

“I’m going to Ice Castle,” Viktor says, as he wipes his mouth. Mari just nods as she clears the plates.

“Yuuko would be happy to see you.”

Yuuko lets him in with a fragile smile and tells him not to worry about the visitors. Viktor touches the vandalised walls, and realises that they are words of condolences.

“These started appearing after Yuuri died…they all missed him, I think. He was Hasetsu’s hero.”

“Yeah." 

“Come over sometime, alright? The triplets would want to see you.” 

“Of course, Yuuko.” 

She gives him another smile, and retires further away. 

Viktor skates slowly around the rink, and lets the memories swirl around him. He has learnt not to cling onto them, but to let them play, and then let them go. He is not surprised when Yuuri appears, just at the corner of his eyes, smiling.

“You’re better, then.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to skate?” 

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’re letting me go.” 

“Yes. No. Not really. I don't know.”

"Hmm?"

"You'll always be part of me," Viktor says, quietly, as he traces the smooth ice. "But I don't want to let the grief take over all our memories together...so I will let go of the sadness, instead. Even if it will never stop hurting, fully." 

“Oh, Vitya. You know I just want you to be happy.” 

“I think that’ll be difficult for me, without you." 

“But not as sad.” 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“…I love you, you know.” 

“And I love you too. So much.” 

“…”

“Skate for me, one last time.”

“Of course.”

Yuuri smiles, and it is quiet. Viktor takes a familiar position at the middle of the rink, legs crossed, hands loose by his sides, head dipped low, and lets the familiar piano music play.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm... sorry. i guess i always wondered how much it would hurt to lose the love of your life - difficult to postulate. 
> 
> i appreciate all kudos and comments :) 
> 
> literary references:  
> haiku by kobayashi issa (in japanese: 鳴な虫別るる恋はほしにさへ) i believe it references the japanese festival of tanabata?  
> lines” pablo neruda  
> edith piaf’s beautiful hymne à l’amour  
> wuthering heights: “he's more myself than I am. whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” emily brontë  
> lighthousekeeping and gut symmeteries jeanette winterson  
> "the hollow men" t. s. eliot  
> "watching my man polishing his shoes" pooja nansi  
> "funeral blues" w. h. auden  
> ariel in shakespeare’s the tempest  
> the myth of orpheus and eurydice


End file.
